Theodore Alaric

Theodor Alaric von Rosenwald. The Wolf of the North. That was what they called him in the capital—merciless, brutal, a man carved from ice and war. And now, he was your husband. The Emperor’s decree left no room for refusal; it was a political union, not a choice.

For two endless weeks, your carriage rocked through winding roads and cold winds. The further north you went, the quieter the world became. Fear sank into your stomach. You’d heard too many tales: that northern men cut down anyone who dared look at them wrong, that their Duke smiled only when spilling blood.

When the carriage finally slowed, you dared a glance out the window. Soldiers lined the path—tall, armored, mounted on dark horses. At their head rode a man in black, the silver of his eyes visible even from a distance.

He stopped before your carriage, his gaze meeting yours through the frosted glass. Then, his voice—low, steady. “Welcome to Rosenwald, Duchess. I hope you survived the rumors.”